Agatha P Marketson
by Dramafool
Summary: This is a mindless bit of fluff that just popped into my mind. It's all the fault of my friend Liz, who introduced me to this glorious show. But yes, fluff through and through honestly, no substance whatsoever. Read and enjoy!


**A/N: Right, so, as I'm sure most of you know, plot bunnies are terrible things that deserve to be shot. But sometimes, when you're supposed to be working on homework, you feel the need to just write them out, even if they're the dumbest ideas you've ever had. This is one of those times. Please keep in mind that I own nothing except 15 dollars and 82 cents, a ratty old t-shirt, and a pet ferret named Ryan. X-Files and all that delicious stuff belong to Chris Carter, Agent Scully belongs to Gillian Anderson (mostly), and Agent Mulder belongs to the Delicious David Duchovny. Unfortunately, David Duchovny is yet another in a long list of things that I do not own. The world is an unfair place, is it not?**

Special Agent Dana Scully of the Federal Bureau of Investigations sighed as she pushed her goggles up from where they'd slipped down her nose. A strand of red hair had escaped from both her severe bun and the plastic cap that she had on over her hair. Irritatedly, she pushed it behind an ear, and picked up her scalpel again.

She was stuck in the lab _again_– Mulder had cavorted off, doing whatever exciting investigation crossed his path. All alone in this very metallic, disgustingly clean room with no one but– she checked the tag tied around the toe of the corpse in front of her– Agatha P. Marketson for company.

"Subject appears about 35 years of age. Hair: Brown. Height: 5 foot 4. Weight: 135 pounds. Cause of death seems to be asphyxiation. Subject appears to have been smothered to death, possibly by a pillow or other such object," Dana muttered into the tape recorder that she held in her left hand. Setting the recorder on the table, she returned to the task at hand.

She felt like she'd been in this room _forever_, though it was probably only about two hours. _I've been in here for longer,_ she thought to herself. _That time with that burn victim– God, that was awful. Five hours of pure hell. Mulder got off flirting with that waitress, didn't even tell me where he'd got to. I stayed up half the night thinking that one of those crazy mutants that he dreams up had gotten him. Or that he'd been abducted._

_I'm starting to sound like him. Christ. I need a break._

Setting down her scalpel, Dana pushed the corpse back into the giant refrigerator in the morgue. Agatha P. Marketson wasn't going to be going anywhere for a long, long while– surely she would begrudge a tired, hardworking FBI agent just a few moments for a cup of coffee.

_Or wine. Or something stronger. I could go for something stronger. But no. No. Coffee it is._

The good thing about DC was that there were Starbucks' everywhere. After taking a few minutes to clean up and to strip off all the latex and cotton labcoat that she was wearing, Dana stepped outside into the DC summer heat. The humidity hit her like a hammer, leaving her feeling sweaty and miserable, especially under the formal suit that she was wearing.

_I hate DC in the summer. Where the hell is Mulder? And what the hell time is it?_ She glanced at the gold watch that her brother had given her for her birthday. _Eleven at night. A girl could get raped walking around DC at a time like this._ Dana gave a cold smile and fingered the gun she had at her waist. _I am _not_ in the mood for anyone who wants to "try" anything with me tonight._

She reached the bright lights of the Starbucks across the street and entered. Much to her dismay, and despite the late hour, there was a formidable line of people waiting to be served– and every single one of them seemed to be in some state of irritation. It only took Dana a moment to figure out that the irritation was directed at the tall man standing at the front of the line, shouting and waving his arms about in a distinctly insane fashion.

"I've got to get back there!" he screamed, pointing vaguely at the back of the store. "My partner's back there doing some very important work for the FBI. I'm an FBI agent, and you are obstructing justice!"

With a sinking feeling in her chest, Dana recognized the voice. Elbowing her way forcibly through the crowd of people, she made her way to the counter. Grabbing the man by his elbow, she turned him around to look at her.

Hazel eyes stared down into her violet-blue ones and a hand reached out to steady itself on her shoulder. Dana sighed as the smell of alcohol rolled over her. Mulder was quite obviously drunk off his ass.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," Dana said to the boy behind the counter. "It won't happen again."

"It had better not!" came an angered voice from the crowd, "Or I'm calling the police!"

"Shit, man! What kind of a lunatic is that?" Shouted another. Dana sighed again.

"Excuse us. Excuse us. Pardon me." Slowly, with Mulder's tall, heavy body leaning fully on her very-much-shorter and slighter one, she made her way to the door.

As the two agents stepped out into the muggy air, Mulder stirred and lifted himself until he was standing fully upright. "Thanks, Scully," he slurred, patting her shoulder. "Thought there was going to be a riot in there."

"There nearly was," Dana replied, rolling her eyes and feeling twinges of annoyance stir. "What the hell were you doing? Why are you so drunk? And how did you think that a coffee shop could possibly be a morgue?"

"Why not?" Mulder replied. "I'm a federal agent of the FBI, which you'd think would get people to respect and like me. But instead, I'm locked away in the basement because people don't approve of my search for the truth. My sister's been abducted by aliens, the rest of my family is most likely going to be killed off by the very government I work for, my partner thinks that I'm insane most of the time– as does the rest of the world. You know, Scully, when I think about it, I really have no right to be drunk."

"Sarcasm has a time and place, Mulder," Dana reminded her partner, guiding him across the street, back to the morgue.

"And this is that time and place," Mulder replied. The two reached the door to the morgue, when Mulder stopped, staring at the filthy pavement beneath his feet. When Dana raised an eyebrow at him in inquiry, he commented lightly, "Cigarette butts. There are cigarette butts on the ground."

"There are cigarette butts everywhere, Mulder," Dana replied. "This is a city. Lots of people smoke. Come on. Let's get you inside."

Mulder staggered through the open door and through the lobby, heading straight for the lab where Dana had been performing her autopsy. Collapsing on a chair in the corner, he watched out of bleary eyes as Dana put back on her lab coat and latex gloves, tied her hair back and put the plastic cap back on her head.

"So," said Dana, once she'd pulled the unfortunate Agatha P. Marketson out of her refrigerator drawer and had her situated back on the table. "What really made you go out and get drunk right in the middle of an investigation? And why, exactly, did you end up in a Starbucks across the street from the morgue?"

"It's a long story," slurred Mulder, eyes drifting shut.

"I've got a long time," replied Dana, watching him through her lashes. He smiled sleepily, and Dana could tell that his brain was having no control over what came out of his mouth. Well, less control than usual. "All night."

"Alright. So, I followed the trail to this guy– the guy who I believed killed– what's her name?" He gestured to the body on the table.

"Agatha. Agatha Marketson," replied Dana.

"Right. Agatha Marketson. Anyway, he had this funny way with things, in that he could move them with his mind. I mean, you know. We've been chasing him for the past month. You've seen how he can just...sort of..."

"Mulder..." Dana protested, but Mulder made a shushing sound to silence her.

"We can debate this when I'm sober, Scully. Anyway, so I tracked him down, and he threw a chair at me. Well, not "threw". More...I don't know. Threw. Whatever. So he threw a chair at me and it hit me and he got out the door. I chased him down on Thirteenth Street– if you hear about a huge traffic jam, it's my fault– and he said something to me."

"Before or after you chased him down?"

"Does it really matter? Stop interrupting, or I'll pass out before I can tell you. So, he said, 'where's that pretty partner of yours, Mulder? Why could she be the one lying on top of me?'"

"You were lying on top of–"

"Shh-shh. I had to jump off a wall in order to stop him and ended up landing on him– I told you it was a long story, didn't I?"

"Yes, well, I didn't expect it to be 'Brokeback Mountain'!"

"Shut up, Scully."

"Alright, so you were lying on top of this guy–" Dana prompted in an attempt to get the alcohol-logged Mulder back on track.

"Yes, and he asked where you were. And then he said a few, less-than-complementary things bout you."

"Such as..."

"Let's just say that he seemed to be suffering under the misapprehension that since you were a woman surrounded by a bunch of men most of the time, that you were a whore. And he asked for a profession assessment of your...ahem...skills. Etcetera, etcetera."

"Great," Dana said, feeling her cheeks burn slightly red with embarrassment. "What happened then, Mulder?"

"I got angry," Mulder said quietly, hazel eyes closed. "And I kicked his ass. I kicked his ass good."

"Mulder..."

"When the police got there, I told them that he'd taken a nasty fall. I don't think that the cops believed me, but they'd seen what he did to your pal Agatha here, and those kids back in China Town. They weren't really averse to seeing him get roughed up a bit."

"And then?"

"I went out and got drunk. There's this great place in Dupont Circle– got these women in tiny skirts, they walk around selling drunks, and if you tip them just a _little _extra–"

"Shut up, Mulder," Dana sighed, turning back to Agatha P. Marketson. Silence filled the room as she set to work, the smells of chemicals and death drifting through the air instead of the sounds of conversation. After about half-an-hour of quiet, Dana realized that she was finished– there was really nothing more she could find out until the samples came back from the lab. Stripping off her gloves and scrubbing her hands, she removed her goggles and plastic cap.

As she stowed her lab coat away, Dana began to realize that her eyes were watering. Grabbing a paper towel, she swiped angrily at the water streaming down her face– until she realized that she was crying.

This realization seemed to spark something inside of her, something that flared weakness and made her sink down onto one of the metal folding chairs that lined the sides of the room, burying her face in the scratchy paper towel.

She heard movement on the other side of the room, and then Mulder was there, kneeling beside her, smoothing her hair down with a big hand. Without consciously realizing it, Dana leaned into the warmth that he offered and ended up with the towel discarded on the floor, weeping into the shoulder of his shirt instead.

"Hey, hey, hey. Scully. Scully, what's wrong? What's the matter?" Mulder asked.

Dana shook her head and wrapped her arms around his chest, holding onto him like a lifeline of stability. Surprised, Mulder began stroking her back with his other hand, pulling her closer to him. Slowly, Dana's sobs began to subside and she loosened her grip on him.

"I'm sorry," she sniffled.

"What happened?" Mulder asked, still stroking her back. Dana sighed.

"I was – jealous," she whispered.

"Pardon?"

"I was jealous!" Dana said louder, directly into Mulder's ear. He winced.

"Who of?"

"Of those women in the bar. Of the fact that you felt that you could go to them instead of me when you were upset. Hell, you don't even know their _names _and you went to them instead of me!"

"Well, I don't know about that," Mulder said, grinning wryly. "Ms. Kittykat was particularly accommodating–" he broke off as Dana tried to push away. "No– Scully, wait. Just– stay here for a moment." His voice died down to a whisper, and Dana had to strain to hear him. "It feels so right, just to hold you."

Dana's heart began to beat faster as she stared up into his wide hazel eyes. "You're drunk, Mulder," she said flatly. "You don't know what you're saying."

"When it comes to you, I never know what I'm saying," Mulder retorted. "I never know what I'm saying, or doing, or thinking. And I love it. I love not knowing because it means that I'm close to you."

"Mulder–" Dana started.

"Dana, I love you. I may be drunk as hell, but I do know something– however confused you have ever made me, one thing has always remained clear, and that's that I need to be close to you. You infuriate me with your skepticism, you anger me with your by-the-book reasoning– but you complete me."

Dana smiled. "Oh, that's romantic, Mulder."

Mulder smiled anxiously. "Well, I've just told you...everything. I believe that the usual practice is to tell me how you feel in return."

Dana sucked in a deep breath and pushed herself away from her partner. Walking across the room, she grabbed another paper towel from the dispenser and used it to blot her face off. Behind her, she could hear Mulder stand, and she could feel his eyes watching her every move. Finally, she turned to face him. He was standing in the center of the room, looking entirely ridiculous. His six-foot-plus frame loomed awkwardly, his tie was loosened and askew, his shirt unbuttoned and slightly damp from Dana's crying jag. His eyes were wide and pleading – he looked like a man who had just given up everything he'd ever known, and was waiting to see if it would be worth it.

Dana thought that it was the most attractive thing that she'd ever seen.

"Mulder–" she stopped herself. "No. Fox. Fox, you are someone who pushes me to my limits. When I'm with you, I always try to be the best I can be, if only to avoid letting you down. Your habits are imprinted on my mind– I will never look at sunflower seeds the same way ever again, now that I've met you. That stupid poster of yours on the wall of the basement office means more to me than the rest of the world. I would do anything to keep you in my life."

Fox stared at her for a moment. "So..." he prompted.

"So, I love you, too."

**A/N: yes, yes, I know. No substance. But you were warned! Who needs substance in a fluffy fic? Also, to all my friends reading this, I tell you to get off my case– who says a girl can't have more than one fandom? Also, when you've got a plot bunny, you've got a plot bunny, no matter what fandom it falls in. So review please!**


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